


The Edge of a Moment

by Flightstone



Category: Tales of Graces
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 03:30:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15501348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flightstone/pseuds/Flightstone
Summary: Asbel is aware of what a privilege it is to see Richard like this. It is a side of Richard few people ever get to witness. A vulnerability, a moment of weakness, and one of the truest facets of himself.





	The Edge of a Moment

**Author's Note:**

> I have very little experience writing (or sharing!) things of this nature, so please let me know what you think and what I need to work on. I've really been missing the ship and wanted to write something fluffy and intimate, thus this ficlet came about.

Asbel is aware of what a privilege it is to see Richard like this. Sprawled beneath him, slim fingers tangled in the bedsheets, chest rising and falling with each shaky breath. It is a side of Richard few people ever get to witness. A vulnerability, a moment of weakness, and one of the truest facets of himself.

If Asbel is Richard’s sword, then the king is the sheath he keeps returning to again and again, the place he belongs even though they both know better. Dark hazel eyes watch him (willing him on, daring him to continue) and the only thing separating that smooth, pale neck from the searching of Asbel’s lips is his own hesitation.

“What are you waiting for, Asbel?” Richard asks, a hoarse laugh hooked on to the end of a thought. 

“You know exactly what I’m waiting for,” Asbel reminds him sternly -- but it's a false sternness far too kind, rewarded with a sly grin as Richard reaches a trembling hand to cup his cheek.

Asbel presses his face into the touch, savoring it. But he doesn’t move. Not yet. He isn't going to risk it even though they’re both eager, hard; even though it’s been weeks.

“You needn't hold back on my account,” Richard tries again, and Asbel can tell in the lines of his face, in the way he shifts ever so subtley, skin bumping against heated skin, just how much he wants him.

“I wasn't really planning on it. Just...be patient for a little while.”

And then they both laugh because since when are either of them patient when there’s _this_ between them.

A moment passes, maybe two, and without prelude Richard’s grip on him tightens, thighs squeezing, the heels of his feet scuffing at Asbel’s lower back. It’s all so amazingly, unbearably tight that it’s the only urging he needs. Asbel plunges himself deep into the place that only he can reach, the place that makes Richard shudder and gasp and cry out his name like he’s the only person who matters, the only person who can rescue him. And he _will_. He always does. He always wants to.

Asbel kisses that neck, breath rasping as he rocks against him, thrusts into him deeper and stronger until Richard is a coiled spring. And Richard is looking for more ways they can connect, anything at all they haven't tried, any way to close the minuscule distance between them. He holds Asbel to him, his palms working feverishly at the space between his shoulder blades, his voice deep and desperate and broken as he releases, as they both let themselves go.

Richard collapses against the pillows, heaving. Beads of sweat collect on his brow, but Asbel kisses those away too. His fingers anchor in the auburn tufts at the back of Asbel's neck, tug him down, down until Richard’s mouth is on his, prying its way in, nice and deliberate and slow, and the sound Asbel makes is more than worth it.

“You were just perfect, Asbel,” Richard says like he always does, his lips curled and smug as he stretches up to shower affection on the crown of his head, the shell of his ear. And it always feels like a dream because he is so tired, so spent, and so completely satisfied, his body tingling in a way that has nothing to do with nerves. 

“So were you, Richard,” comes the usual reply, and Richard beams at him with a look of such longing and unrestrained joy that Asbel understands. Asbel never says “I love you” because he knows he shouldn’t, they shouldn’t, but he can't help it either. And anyway how can one word describe how much he needs...how much he cherishes this one person.

Asbel nestles into the crook of his shoulder, because it is comfortable and _right_ , and he dozes off to the feel of those fingers combing back his damp, limp fringe.

* * * 

The morning sees Richard clothed and covered, not a thread out of place on his regal countenance. He moves through the halls like water, turning heads and eliciting bows. Asbel moves behind him, a white shadow. They exchange a glance that says more than a hundred words ever could, and then Asbel is heading for home. And if anyone reminds him how much the king depends on him, how much the kingdom relies upon his steadfast loyalty, he says he understands. He says he’s honored even though they don’t know the half of it. His efforts may have helped to stabilize the kingdom, but one careless slip-up and he could crush it, too...

And yet, even so.

Asbel knows it won’t be too long now although it always seems like forever. When Mom asks about proposal letters he tells her it’s still too soon, and when Cheria asks if he’s found someone he admits that he thinks so, but it’s complicated. He returns to paperwork and sopherias and walking amongst the citizens of Lhant, and to Sophie who asks him innocently if he and Richard had a good time. Asbel answers yes because they always do, why wouldn’t they? 

But after a while his own two hands working against him are no longer enough to ease the ache of separation, and after a longer while he receives a letter from Barona, perfectly eloquent without any trace of ulterior, selfish motive. But he knows.

He knows because the minute he stands before Richard, alone and secure in his private chambers, Richard is pulling him into a firm embrace and not letting go. All Asbel can do is oblige.

“Just once more. Please, Asbel.”

And who is he to argue when he wants this just as badly?  
So he doesn’t.


End file.
